"How are you, sir?" said Mr. Stillinghast, turning his head, but not
rising. "My niece, Helen Stillinghast. Take a chair." He did not
introduce May, or notice her, except by a frown. Feeling the tears
rush to her eyes at this new mark of her uncle's displeasure, she
flitted back to the kitchen, and commenced operations with her waffle
irons. While engaged with her domestic preparations, she heard the
gay, manly voice of Mr. Jerrold, in an animated conversation with
Helen, who now, in her right element, laughed and talked incessantly.
Again welled up the bitter fountain in her heart, but that talismanic
word dispersed it, and it was gone, like spray melting on the sunny
shores of the sea. When she placed the supper on the table, she moved
around with such calm self-possession--such an airy, light motion of
modest grace, that Walter Jerrold, who had seen much of the world, and
lived in the best company, was struck by the anomaly which combined so
much real grace with what, he considered, domestic drudgery. And May's
appearance justified his remarks. A dark, rich merino dress; a small,
finely embroidered collar, with cuffs of the same; a breast-knot of
crimson and black ribbon; and her waving, glossy hair, falling in broad
bands on her fair cheeks, and gathered up at the back of her head,
beneath a jet comb, completed her attire. It was her usual holiday
dress, and did not embarrass her. Her eyes looked larger, brighter,
and darker than usual, and a faint tinge of rose stole through the
transparent fairness of her cheeks. But, with all, May was no beauty
in the ordinary acceptance of the term. She was one of those rare
mortals who steal into the soul like a pleasant, beneficent idea, and
satisfy its longings with something calmer and holier than mere worldly
friendship; for there was that within May's soul--the hidden mystery of
faith and religion--which, like a lamp in a vase of alabaster, shone
out from her countenance with an influence which none could withstand;
it won--it led--it blessed those who yielded to its power. She
presided at the head of the table that evening with quiet grace, and
attempted once or twice to converse with her uncle, but his looks and
replies were so harsh that she turned to Helen and Mr. Jerrold, and in
a short time found herself amused at his _persiflage_ and Helen's
repartees.

"I have writing to do, Jerrold," said Mr. Stillinghast, after tea; "and
if you will excuse me, I w